Gradual Love
by Sharky567
Summary: Sherlock is faced with the decision that will change his life forever. He chooses to agree to it. Use of OC. JohnLock, if you look closely.


221B Baker Street was many things. So many, in fact, it would take too long to write them all down. All of the pros and cons of this little flat were spectacularly varied. One thing it was not, however, was boring.

After all, 221B Baker Street was the household of the world's greatest detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Granted, he got bored easily, as he was a complete genius, but even his attempts to cure boredom were beyond extraordinary. His recent favorite cure had been shooting at the wall. Something his flat-mate, John Watson, was not extremely fond of. Well, at least he wasn't shooting a living creature.

Of course, Sherlock's main stimulant happened to be difficult brain work. Not difficult in a sense for you or I, like a puzzle or a game: but murders: clever, different, impossible murders. Sherlock Holmes was a detective, well, to be more specific, a consulting detective. He claims to have invented the job, and technically, he has. Being a 'consulting detective' means the police consult Sherlock when they are out of their depth, which was, as he says, 'always.' Can hardly blame them, though.

Then there was his flat-mate. John Watson, a former army doctor. He was drafted in Afghanistan, as Sherlock figured out within the moment he met him. The reason why he was brought back to London was because he was shot in his left shoulder and leg. The shot in the leg gave him a limp, or so he thought. It turned out to be psychosomatic, as Sherlock proved that after two days when John moved in with him. The doctor believed he was scarred by the war in more ways than one, but in his heart, he truly missed it. I guess a couple good things can come out from having a sociopath who likes to chase criminals around England for a living.

Well, as you now know a little bit about these two men, I suppose it's time to inform you about this intriguing time of their lives.

As it was established before, there was no such thing as 'normal' or 'boring' in 221B. This day in particular happened to be no different. Sherlock Holmes sat at the kitchen table, chemicals and equipment strewn about. He was concentrating solely on his microscope, peering into it with his lips pursed into a thin line. Nevertheless, the only few things that were considered normal behavior in this flat was about to change, drastically.

John was sitting at his respective sofa (the one with the Union Jack pillow, of course) reading contentedly while Sherlock was working. As long as there weren't any explosions, John was happy.

Although, as all stories go, there had to be that one person who disrupted the peace of the place. Greg Lestrade, the Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard, barged into the flat unannounced, looking around the place with anxiety in his eyes. He was out of breath, as though he had run up the stairs to talk to the two men.

John looked up from his book to Lestrade curiously. "What's the matter, Greg?" He asked as his greeting, his brow furrowing in confusion. Lestrade took a moment to catch his breath before speaking. "Something big happened," he finally said, "it's not a murder, but I need Sherlock's help." The DI turned to the kitchen expectantly, finding that the consulting detective hadn't even flinched when Lestrade entered. "What happened?" His deep baritone voice spoke out in a mumbled monotone, clearly more interested in the results of the chemical under his microscope.

Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "It's uh," he fumbled, "kinda hard to explain. See, there's this girl..."

John chuckled. "You came to Sherlock for love advice? Sorry, mate, but you're really not going to get anywhere with that."

Lestrade blushed slightly. "Not like that." He mumbled indifferently, "We had a girl brought in from America, she's apparently in the Witness Protection Program. She has to live in London now, and we can't really find anyone suitable enough to watch over her and protect her properly..." He trailed off, not knowing what to say next.

Sherlock finally lifted his head up from the microscope, looking at Lestrade with his brow raised. "You," he paused, "you want me to watch over a child? I am positive there are plenty of other people that could keep her protected, Lestrade."

"Now, hold on, I never said anything about a child." Lestrade countered. "She's about sixteen years old. And no, there isn't anyone else. Her case is pretty serious. The CIA almost got involved." Sherlock merely scoffed, appearing uninterested. John saw right through the façade he was pulling, however. There was pure interest behind those brilliant blue eyes. "She's come here from America, she's in the Witness Protection Program. Her parents were killed by a serial murderer, and she's been on the run ever since. I've tried whatever I could, but none of the nearby orphanages would take her in, and practically everyone that could be a potential guardian declined. You were most definitely my last resort, Sherlock."

"Why couldn't you take care of her?" John asked as politely as he could.

Lestrade scoffed. "Like I'm suitable enough. I can barely take care of myself!" John contorted his face into one of agreement and sympathy for his friend.

Sherlock stood up from his seat, walking over to the other detective. "Of course we will take her in, Lestrade. It would be my pleasure." He forced out a smile, folding his hands behind his back. John's mouth fell open, his eyes widening. "Hold on!" he shouted, standing up from his chair. "You never asked _me _if any of this was alright!"

Sherlock ignored his friend, nodding in affirmation to Greg. "He'll get over it." He mouthed to the DI. Lestrade furrowed his brow, unsure which one he should trust more.

"I can bring her in to meet you two, if you'd like…" He said slowly.

Sherlock smiled tightly. "I'd be delighted."

With a small nod, Greg walked out of the flat to his car.

"That crossed the line, Sherlock." John said, softly, trying very hard not to throttle the detective.

"Hm?" Sherlock replied, already looking back to his experiment.

"You know bloody well what I'm talking about, don't try to be a smart-ass! Sherlock, you've never taken care of an animal before, how are you going to take care of a teenage girl? Where is she going to sleep, Sherlock? And obviously, she's been traumatized, imagine how she'll react to body parts in the fridge, and if you drag her off to a case if I'm not there-Jesus, Sherlock, you can't just do these kinds of things on a whim!"

Sherlock looked down to his friend, his brow raised. "I believe she will manage. If she really is as bad as Lestrade claims to be, than most likely she will not be willing to communicate very often, nor will she be in our presence for long periods of time."

The look that John gave Sherlock clearly read, 'you've got to be kidding me.' But, after a moment, he just decided to give in, finding it impossible to convince the detective otherwise. "Fine." He muttered. "Fine. But where will she sleep, Sherlock?"

Sherlock gave a small smirk to his friend. It seems as if he'd won again. And it was actually rather easy this time. "Oh, I believe Mrs. Hudson still has not found anyone to reside in the empty room on the first floor."

The only response John could muster was a loud sigh and a shake of the head.

True to his word, Greg Lestrade came back to 221B after about fifteen minutes when he first arrived, only this time, he had company. John was at least polite enough to open the door and greet the newest member properly. "This is Sky," Lestrade introduced her rather quickly, "Sky, this is John."

The girl, Sky, looked to be about fifteen or sixteen. She had bright red curly locks of hair that traveled down to her shoulders. Her eyes were a bright green, just as mesmerizing as Sherlock's were. She looked thin, a little too thin for John's liking. A couple freckles were dotted across her cheeks and nose, and average lips, which curved into the smallest smile to greet John. All in all, she was actually rather pretty. John returned her smile tenfold, trying to make her feel as welcome as possible. He stepped aside, letting the two of them in. Sky looked around the flat, taking her surroundings in. She then turned to Lestrade, and, without warning, she reached up and hugged the DI with her arms wrapped around his neck. "Thank you, detective for all of your help." She spoke softly, barely over a whispered tone. Very awkwardly, Lestrade patted the teen's head. "Not a problem. I'll come and get you soon, okay?" Sky pulled away from Lestrade, nodding. "And if Sherlock gives you any trouble," the DI continued in a hushed tone, "don't hesitate to punch him." Sky smiled a little more, and nodded.

Lestrade turned back to John. "Take your time getting to know her. Call me when you're ready."

John smiled. "Course, Greg. Uh," he pointed to the door, "can we talk?" Lestrade jerked his head in agreement and the two went down the stairs.

Almost immediately after the two had emptied out of the room, Sherlock (who was sitting in his classic 'thinking pose' the entire time), suddenly sprang up from the love seat he was laying on and almost pounced onto Sky, looking her dead in the eye.

She had dark circles under her eyes, suggesting a lack of sleep. Her hair was slightly knotted at the temples which meant she was rubbing them, and attempt to release stress or a headache. She wore a large jacket, much too large for her, the same with her jeans. Her hands were clammy and frail; the bone was seen through them. Her face was drained of its color as well, her eyes slightly sunken into her skull. She had an eating disorder, and by the looks of her trembling figure, she also had anxiety. She was traumatized, but hiding it very well.

"I'm guessing that you must be Sherlock Holmes." Sky's voice penetrated the silence of the room, breaking Sherlock from his thoughts. "Hello." She crossed her arms over her chest, the fabric of the jacket tightening around her body, proving just how thin she really was.

"Hello." Sherlock responded with his deep baritone voice. Sherlock decided (wisely), to keep his deductions to himself. John would have a fit if he told her what he found out.

"Detective Lestrade told me quite a bit about you."

"Did he?"

"He said you're a genius; a real one. That you've solved loads of cases for him."

Sherlock raised his brow. Lestrade didn't seem to be the kind of man who'd just give the credit to somebody who stood him up almost all the time. Then again, nobody really was.

"No, he didn't."

Sky tilted her head to the side, not moving her eyes away from the consultant. "You're a lot better than a lot of people let on. That's the best lie I've ever told."

Sherlock merely smirked in reply, and upon hearing footsteps ascending the stairs, Sherlock made his way back to the sofa, collapsing on it and steeping his hands under his chin.

John entered the room again, turning to Sky and smiling. "Do you want anything to drink or eat?" He asked; John Watson was never one to forget manners.

"A cup of coffee or tea would be great, thank you." Sky said quietly.

John nodded and went to the kitchen, with the teenager following. "I like your flat," she said, "it's very decorative. Does Sherlock like to work at home, too?" Sky gestured to the science equipment strewn about the room.

"Well, not really work, I think he just does it to try and cure boredom. It's better than a lot of his other methods."

Sky smiled a little as John reached for the mugs. "Coffee's good, yeah?" He asked. Sky nodded, looking at the chemicals and test tubes.

"You like science?" John turned to Sky, seeing her interest in Sherlock's things.

"I'm not very good at it, but it's interesting."

John nodded in understanding as he started to prepare the coffee machine.

The two of them chatted pointlessly and quietly for a few minutes. It was mostly John doing the talking, Sky simply smiled or nodded her head every now and then.

The coffee machine made a 'ding' noise, signaling that the drink was ready. John poured himself and Sky a mug, asking her if she liked anything in it. "Black, two sugars, please." She said.

"Huh," John said, a little amused, "that's exactly how Sherlock takes it."

Sky shrugged and reached for her mug. "Small world?" John mimicked her shrug, taking a sip from his cup.

"Oh, by the way, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John's coffee was spit out back into the cup. "What?" He said in almost a slight panic, wiping the beverage off of his chin.

"Well, you're a soldier. Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"A-Afghanistan…" John mumbled, staring at Sky with pure shock. She smiled in return.

"You're very brave for risking yourself for your country."

John's throat felt like it swelled, he could barely swallow. "T-thank you."

Sherlock, meanwhile, had heard the entire conversation. Upon hearing Sky's inquiry, the detective stood and picked up his phone, calling Lestrade.

"It's me, and we're definitely keeping her."


End file.
